The Man Who Had Everything
by Anglobear
Summary: What do you get the man who has everything? Dean/Cas


Of all the days in the year for the angel to go missing, it had to be Dean's birthday. This didn't bother Dean as much as it should, because he was fairly certain that up in Heaven or wherever Castiel was kicking it these days, time was different for him. And it wasn't like he'd talked about it much prior to it actually happening, because he intended to spend it like he spent most birthdays: at a bar, not giving it much thought. Sam never pressed him to really celebrate, and so it became another one of their holidays that they swept under the rug, underwhelming and laced with liquor. But Dean really thought that Castiel had some kind of 'angel intuition' or something equally as useless, and maybe, just maybe, he knew about today.

That was his birthday wish when he blew out the flame in his shot glass.

...

Castiel was not in Heaven, and if you asked him where he was on Earth, he couldn't really tell you. He knew there was a specific title for where he was at, but the throngs of people were slightly disconcerting and weren't giving him much room to think. He was much more of a stationary angel and now he was a _frowning_ stationary angel, because everyone was giving him looks that were on par with Dean's "I'm very disappointed in what you're doing" face. Much akin to the "I'm not letting you use your 'angel mojo' on me" face. It might have been because he was just standing there staring at a shopfront, but Castiel was taught not to make assumptions.

There was a very real dilemma facing him and though it wasn't tangible in the sense that one might think, it weighed very heavily on him and his vessel almost physically. He hunched his shoulders as he stepped into the shop; the clerks were questionable looking themselves, but they acted like Castiel was the one with all the tattoos on his skin and hulking muscles. Knives adorned the walls and immediately he felt out of place with such arcane weaponry, but it was for Dean. Dean would appreciate the nuances of a finely sharpened blade.

Except everything here didn't look very practical. This was not going to be the place where Castiel bought his gift for Dean.

But everywhere he went inside the 'mall', the window for ideas of things that Dean would like closed more and more. A new problem sprang up in his mind: _what do you get the man who has everything?_

Dean Winchester had everything and, all at once, nothing at all. He had his brother, who _was_ his everything, but didn't most people also keep material items as well? The Impala didn't count, and Castiel couldn't very well buy him another car. Dean would be most offended (Castiel could hear "_You don't like my car?_" echoing in his ears, his mind supplying Dean's voice for him). The man never seemed to take much of a liking to anything other than alcohol, curiously bendy women, and the company of those he actually cared about. And if the angel showed up with alcohol or a woman for Dean, it just wouldn't feel personal. Birthdays were personal.

Castiel wanted to get Dean a gift that mattered.

...

It was nearly midnight on the 24th of January, and it was as cold as a tomb inside the musty scented motel room. Lights were out, but even in the dark you could see the whites of Dean's eyes flashing back and forth as if paranoid, waiting for something. His brother was not in the room with him, purely by request, just for this one night and he couldn't be more thankful that Sam simply accepted it without wanting to talk about it. Getting older was a fact of life, a facet of the inevitable, and Winchesters took it in stride.

Didn't mean that he couldn't have a little period of mourning for another year that he couldn't really remember. His memories were flickers on celluloid, burnt out by long stretches of open road and so much blood on his hands that he couldn't differentiate which droplets were his. He never fought the choices he made nor the ones that were out of his hands, still didn't numb it any more the older he got. Dean had grown complacent when he should have tried harder to make ends meet in more ways than just financially, but as the clock kept ticking, time just kept running out. And he was just as alone now as he was when he started, perhaps more so.

In the wicked winter of a state whose name eluded him, Dean wore all his clothes to bed, kept the air conditioning on just to emphasize the temperature, and watched his breath escape from between his teeth into stagnant air.

The sharp crackle of misplaced energy startled him out of a light sleep, his hands already making for the knife beneath his pillow. "There's no need for that, Dean," came Castiel's voice, sounding so much like rocks being shuttled around beneath a moving car tire. Oddly enough, he took that moment to clear his throat, and then to maneuver himself onto the end of the bed.

"Well aren't you little Miss Late-to-the-party," Dean said with a bite to his tone.

"I wasn't aware you were having a party, Dean, or else I would have shown. I thought you'd be at a local bar, or den–"

"Cut the crap, Cas. It's fine, it's all fine." Dean sat up against a wall of pillows he'd made for himself upon Castiel's arrival, and sunk into the stuffing with ease. Castiel narrowed his eyes (could he do that? To Dean, they already seemed pretty narrowed) and made a derisive snort.

"In my experience, when you say you are fine, you are very much lying," Castiel said. It was true, not that he should have to lie right now. A cursory glance to the clock said it was 11:48, so he was going to have to give his gift now or wait until the next birthday or holiday. No one could be sure if another would come, anyway.

"Honest, I'm fine now. There a reason you're sitting on my bed in the middle of the night, being your usual creepy cryptic self, or what?" Something inside Dean had held on hope that Cas would show, and now that he had, it was almost disappointing. He felt deflated, the chilly air in his lungs all but vanished.

"It's your birthday today." Castiel nodded, affirming the fact to himself.

"Yeah, and you pretty much missed the festivities. Thanks for showing up at all, I guess. Friends do that, y'know. They show up to wish each other happy birthday." Dean almost asked if Castiel had a birthday, but he'd probably just get the answer to Jimmy's birthday or something. He didn't really want to celebrate the birth of the man who his angel friend was now wearing. Too weird for his tastes.

"Friends also give gifts, don't they?" Castiel said, practically sotto voce; Dean had to scoot closer down the bed just to hear him.

"Did you get me something?" Immediately he was filled with dread. Castiel may know every nook and cranny of Dean's soul, but how well did he know Dean apart from that? The things that he liked and didn't like–oh who was he kidding? He was an awfully simple man. You don't look a gift angel in the mouth.

"It was very difficult to pick something out for you, Dean. If I bought you alcohol, you would consume it, and there would be no more gift. If I brought you a woman, she would be gone the next day, and there would be no more gift. Dean," Castiel turned to him. "You are the most impossible person to 'shop' for, so I brought you the only thing I thought you needed."

"Cas, I don't _need_ anything–"

The angel's arms were wrapped tightly around Dean's neck, almost constricting him, loosening only when it seemed like Dean couldn't breathe anymore. Still, the arms were there, the tanned fabric of the trench coat rubbing against his day old stubble, cold and warm all at once. "You're giving me a hug?"

"I'm giving you me, Dean. Is it not true that the people who are closest to you are what you need the most? Family is important, you have taught me this."

A few heartbeats later, Dean reciprocated the gesture and snaked his hands beneath the opening of the trench coat and let them find their way to the middle of Castiel's back. With his face in the crook of the angel's neck, Dean could smell the nondescript scent of laundry straight from the dryer and maybe something he couldn't quite name but definitely reminded him of birds. Baby birds, fragile and new. The hug between them stretched out for a few minutes, because neither of them knew what to say. Not that Castiel would have broken such a moment with words.

"Thanks, Cas. I guess."

Castiel pulled apart from Dean, noting in the near darkness (the moon still shone through the window) that his charge had a shadow of a grin on his face. Perhaps the angel did right. Perhaps he should ask. "Is this what you wanted?"

"I didn't really want anything, but apparently I got what I needed." Dean smirked. Something in his chest throbbed, the skin around his throat felt tight as he struggled to swallow, and all the while he still managed to pull a face that was just so _him._ If Castiel could properly define what one could call 'endearing', then he would label Dean's expressions as just that.

The clock was so very near 12 now, practically a minute to, and Castiel felt like he hadn't done enough. Sure, over the years, he'd given his all to Dean, yet he still found more to give. What was left? His grace, his wings? He scooted closer until the personal space bubble had popped with a quiet bang, and studied Dean's face, looking for an opening of some sort.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.

"It is midnight, no longer your birthday, so I am trying to weigh the options of whether giving you more is advised, despite lack of occasion." The way Cas spoke was always so clinical sounding and Dean hated it, but liked it all the same. Wondered what the angel would be like if he fell and acted human. Reconsidered that notion and just stayed still.

"You don't need an occasion to do nice things for people, Cas. We could celebrate my birthday every day if it'd make you feel better, though."

"I already celebrate the fact that you were born all the time. I would much rather be here and celebrate it with you, though."

Castiel ghosted his lips across the apple of Dean's cheek, choosing there because of a cluster of freckles he found particularly inviting, and let it linger until Dean moved away. Little crinkles appeared in the corners of Dean's eyes, and strangely Castiel found that he wanted to kiss them too. It was a human urge to want these things of a person, but it was only a Castiel urge to want them so much of Dean. To be shot down didn't even occur to him, to have his wax wings melt as he got too close to the sun.

Dean didn't say anything, though, so Castiel continued. He got the crinkles, he got the tip of Dean's nose, and his temples, a fraction of his jaw, and the corners of his lips.

"You're a worse tease than I am sometimes," Dean chuckled softly.

"I wouldn't know."

"That's okay, you'll never have to find out."

Castiel kept at Dean's face, counting freckles and giving them the attention they deserved, until Dean meshed their lips together (out of a bit of frustration) and worked at Cas until his lips were pliable, open enough for him to bite down. He carded his fingers through Castiel's flossy hair, ran his calloused hands down to the back of his smooth neck, but otherwise kept it chaste. It was good, very good, an understatement of the year and it didn't have to feel awkward at all. No one ever told Dean that kissing your friends was the only thing he'd ever want to do once he'd gotten it over with, and suddenly the thought of getting older and losing track of dates and moments didn't matter. They didn't matter to an angel of the Lord, why should they matter to Dean Winchester?

"Dean," Castiel mumbled between their lips as the kissing slowed down and became a lazy press of skin to skin. He sounded tired, but as content as he had even been, so there weren't many worries in Dean's mind.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"Happy birthday."


End file.
